Rituals
by Kare
Summary: Isabel fills her day in order to forget...or avoid remembering. (Mi/I short story)


AUTHOR: Karen "Powrhug" Wood  
  
E-MAIL: powrhug@sky.net  
  
TITLE: Rituals (1/1)  
  
RATING: R for mature themes  
  
CATEGORY: Angst, Isabel POV  
  
COUPLE: Michael/Isabel  
  
NOTES: If you don't like the idea of Michael and Isabel angst/longing?  
  
Well you probably won't like this. Spoilers? Maybe just season three in general. Written 1/9/02  
  
SUMMARY: Isabel fills her day in order to forget...or avoid remembering.  
  
ARCHIVE: Sure, if you want it just take it...but let me know where so I can come visit! Anyone I've said okay to before doesn't need to ask.  
  
DISCLAIMER: The usual. I don't own them. The creators/producers/writers of Roswell do. I'm just writing my thoughts down about the characters and sharing. Without profiting of course.  
  
DEDICATION: Sabrina...for writing me "fanmail" at a point when I needed it the most. You'll never know. But this is for you.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
There comes a point where you become numb to not having the one you love. She came to realize that.  
  
Where once she couldn't get through a minute without looking for him, thinking about him or wanting him...now she gets by. She just simply gets by. And it's no big deal really. It's just something you do. It becomes part of your routine. Like making a grocery list or taking out the trash.  
  
And for her it was no different. She was no different that any other woman. She had loved from inches away without feeling love in return. She had shivered when he accidentally brushed her arm in passing. Her heart had leapt in her throat when he unexpectedly called her name.  
  
But that was then...and this? Well this was later. When she'd learned that love was something she wouldn't be living with. That she shouldn't expect.  
  
So she settled for like. And settled for a good marriage to a good man with a good job and a good home.  
  
A good life.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Days were easy. That's when her life was most filled. With classes and errands and shopping and family. And yes, even friends. Of which he was. But it didn't bother her during the day anyway. Anymore. Since she'd taught herself not to feel.  
  
You keep busy enough and laugh enough and talk enough and you can do anything. It's all a matter of choice. And will.  
  
You can even hold the hand of your husband and smile up into his eyes and make everyone believe he's the love of your life. And that you're a perfect wife. With a perfect life.  
  
She wasn't even sure when it happened. When she stopped hurting around him. You'd think it would have been a clear moment. Since it was, in fact, a defining moment.  
  
When the pain stopped and the numbness fell around her.  
  
But there's no clear line. No date to circle in pen on her calendar.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It was when night came that things got more difficult, though. When she was less able to hold off the pain that lingered along the corners of her consciousness. Even now that she thought she'd gotten it under control.  
  
Maybe it was because she was tired then. Worn out from a day of pretense. Maybe it was because her evenings were less full, since friends and family had other things to do, her husband often came home late from work, and she often found herself alone. Changing slipcovers by hand and rearranging furniture to focus her mind on something other than the pain of the absence of the one she loved.  
  
She came home every evening and walked across the threshold knowing it would be there, waiting for her. The shadows of her love. The memories of a past life that she couldn't quite recall and the recollections of this life that she didn't want to.  
  
He was too much. That was the problem. He surrounded her in her alone-ness. Threatening to overwhelm her, overcome her with his presence.  
  
So she did things like teach herself solitaire and knitting. Anything that took concentration. Anything to keep her mind away from the fantasies of him. Moments that had never happened. In this lifetime.  
  
The soft, firmness of his full lips on hers. The heat of his breath on her neck. The pressure of his long fingers stroking her erect nipples. The feel of him filling her, fitting her like no one else could or would.  
  
Sometimes she alphabetized their CD and DVD collections to keep her mind from turning to him. Sometimes she listened to NPR. Sometimes she potted and repotted plants.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
It was no easier when her husband arrived home, whenever he arrived home. But that too was part of the ritual.  
  
Kiss him on the cheek as soon as you see him. Take his suit jacket and ask about his day. Ask him if he wants anything special for dinner. Tell him about your day. Hand him the mail that was for him. Tell him a bit of gossip you heard from one of the Jennifer's you have in class.  
  
All the while fighting off the thoughts of him that are closing the gap between unconscious and conscious thought.  
  
And you know, with the coming hours, as night approaches, the space will grow smaller. Until you can't fight it anymore. And he'll be there. Whether you want him or not.  
  
So you sit on the couch next to your husband and watch your shared favorite tv show. Laughing when he laughs, nodding when he comments on the action. Smile and nod. Smile and nod. And everything will be alight.  
  
But it's not. Because with nightfall will come the full realization of him. And with that sweetness will be both the feelings and the pain.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Some nights you have sex with your husband. Some nights you don't. But getting ready for bed is the same no matter what the actions after.  
  
You go into the bathroom and shut the door. You pull back your hair in a low bun. You brush your teeth for too long. Staring into your own eyes, practicing your carefree stare. You spit, rinse, spit again.  
  
You then pour make-up remover into your hands. The kind that isn't hypoallergenic. Because it makes it easier hiding the tears when you have the excuse of cleanser getting in your eyes.  
  
It's while she takes her make-up off that she cries for the first time each day. Letting the tears fall across the cheeks she's scrubbing. Washing them away with the water she splashes on her face to rinse off the soap. Before applying moisturizer to her face, her legs, her hands, her lips.  
  
She then slips into something a little less comfortable since she's still technically on her honeymoon and slips into bed beside her husband.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
You play a part. Even during sex. And sometimes it's something like sex that's easier than the other parts of the day. Because you can shut your eyes. Because it can be simply about the physical. Because it can...sometimes...when you dare to let it...be about him.  
  
You kiss the lips that are near yours. You wrap your legs around the strong waist hovering above you. You listen to the moans that say your name.  
  
She always fought to prolong intercourse. Because it was during this time that she was able to embrace the feelings she'd stemmed all day long. Letting them flood over her in orgasmic waves of overwhelming pain and frustration and desire and love. It was during this time...these moments that she felt them the most profoundly.  
  
And it was amazing how much "Michael" could be mistaken for "my love" in the heat of passion.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
But it was afterwards that she dreaded. Because she felt more alone when things were quiet and her husband was asleep. Curled around her...holding in a suffocating embrace.  
  
It was then that her mind was at it's most vulnerable. And there was no pleasure in her pain.  
  
Only complete and utter sadness.  
  
For what she once had in another lifetime. And couldn't quite remember.  
  
For what she once had in this life. And had lost to another.  
  
And for what she didn't have in the present. And would never have in her future.  
  
Because he was not there. She was alone.  
  
  
  
  
  
-End- 


End file.
